Scenes of Seeming Unimportance
by inatrice
Summary: Random scenes and misadventures from Sherlock and John's life together. Kind of cracky. These were initially separate.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was curled up on the couch for the third evening in a row. John was sure he had been there, in that position, for the entire day. Hadn't said anything, hadn't eaten anything. Just stared at the back of the couch in his ratty t-shirt and robe.

John had had enough. He went upstairs to look through Sherlock's dresser. After twenty minutes of searching, he found an old pair of dark jeans and grabbed his favorite purple shirt. Before leaving the bedroom, he grabbed Sherlock's shoes and a pair of socks.

Heart racing, John flew back down the stairs. He was glad when he saw that Sherlock hadn't moved at all. John set his jaw and walked toward his companion.

"John, I'm so bored." Sherlock mumbled into the couch cushion. The consulting detective's eyes were closed and his expression was bordering on pained.

"Well," John said sternly. "I'm here to do something about that." He dropped the clothes on top of his friend. "Get dressed. We're going out."

Sherlock's head whipped around, blue eyes blazing. "What?"

John looked his friend straight in the eye. "Get dressed. We. Are. Going. Out." Then John turned on his heel and went to get ready himself. He could hear Sherlock's confused remarks following him, but he ignored them. If you wanted to _really_ get Sherlock's attention, you had to treat him like he treated everyone else.

Fifteen minutes later, John came back into the main room to find Sherlock dressed in the clothes he'd brought down, a scowl on his face.

"John, why did you have me dress in jeans?" There was no attempt to hide the terseness in his voice.

"Because," John retorted. "We are going to have fun."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, throwing his head to one side. "Your idea of fun and mine differ greatly. I don't have _fun_," he spat. "I have mental stimulation."

John stood, unmoving. "Come on, Sherlock. You need to get out of the house." He could already tell that Sherlock was going to come with him, since he'd gotten dressed. He was just going to fight, tooth and nail, every step of the way. John held out his hand to help his companion up, but Sherlock did not take it. John pursed his lips and turned to walk out of the apartment. He knew Sherlock would be behind him.

John hailed a cab and when he opened the door, Sherlock slid into the cab. John tried to hide his smile as he secretly hoped that tonight went well. He told the cabbie where to take them through the driver's window before he climbed into the cab himself.

"What?" Sherlock's brows knitted together. "What was that? Where are we going?"

"I told you," John said, looking toward his friend. "We're going to have fun."

The scowl returned to Sherlock's face. "I doubt we're going to go check on my experiment at Bart's."

"Nope."

"Not going to pick up a new cylinder set."

"No. I'm sure you'll notice as soon as we get along a little farther."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stayed silent, watching the street pass by through the window. John could feel nervousness grow in the pit of his stomach. Though he was sure he knew his friend quite well, he wasn't quite sure how the consulting detective would react to where they were going. John's thoughts circled in his head until Sherlock scoffed.

"Really John? You're taking me to a club?" He didn't look back into the cab, he just continued to stare out the window.

John didn't answer. He couldn't gage his companion's reaction. This was a stupid idea, why had he even attempted? Thankfully, the club was relatively close to their flat, so John didn't have enough time to psych himself out. They pulled up to the club just as night was setting in. John gave the cabbie his money and followed Sherlock into the pulsing building.

It was loud inside. The lights were fluorescent and constantly moving, flashing blues and purples. The music was loud, shaking the building, and admittedly a little obnoxious. Sherlock immediately sat at the bar. John slid in next to him, trying to avoid the glare his friend was shooting at him. "You gotta admit, at least it's fun people watching at places like this." John shouted over the music. He ordered two drinks from the bartender.

Sherlock sighed. "Please. Watching desperate people trying to get lucky while getting stupidly drunk? That is not what I call _fun_, John." Sherlock took both drinks that the bartender had set in front of them and downed them both. He winced as the alcohol burned down into him. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and called for another round.

Sherlock immediately drank whatever was set near him and it wasn't before long that his fingers were tapping along to the beat of the incessant music. John smiled to himself and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was getting buzzed for his sake; he was beginning to smile and joke around a little. Perhaps, he could get his best friend to dance with him a little.

As the two friends were laughing at a drunken man who had fallen trying to dance around a group of girls, a new face joined their midst. A girl had come and put her arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock recoiled, jumping forward, too fast for his tipsy body to control. John rushed to catch him and they both ended up on the floor, overtaken with giggles. They helped each other up and before Sherlock could sit down, John pulled him over to the dance floor. A song had come on that he was actually familiar with. John wasn't much of a dancer, but his body moved more fluidly with a few drinks in him. He swayed from side to side around Sherlock, giggling at the man's confused expression, his eyes, dark gray in this light, screaming for help.

John punched his friend lightly in the shoulder, at the very least to get him moving. Sherlock wobbled, his body somehow falling in time to the music. After he got a handle on the beat, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and began to lead him in some sort of mix between the wild flailings that were now considered dancing and the tango. Somehow it worked with the music and soon people were giving them room on the dance floor and some even tried to imitate. As he was being spun, John vaguely marveled at how good a dancer his friend was, and how effortless it all seemed even with the alcohol in his system.

After a few hours, the pair grew tired. As they left the club, Sherlock was still moving to the beat that was audible outside of the club, singing made up words and flailing his arms. John held onto his sides in an effort to keep them from splitting. He had been laughing nearly nonstop since first setting foot on the dance floor. They hailed a cab and clung to each other to try and keep from falling over, especially with all the stairs in 221B. John helped Sherlock into his bed, and was about to turn to go to his own room when Sherlock grabbed a hold of his wrist.

"John." The detective slurred. "John, wait." Sherlock pulled him closer, causing him to stumble. He caught himself in a sitting position on the side of the bed and quickly decided there was too much work involved in getting up again. He lay back next to his friend. "John, please don't tell Lestrade about what happened tonight."

John chuckled. "Why would I tell Lestrade?"

"I don't know!" He exclaimed. "And don't put it on your stupid blog either." Sherlock kicked off his shoes and rolled over to face him. "Promise you won't."

"I promise, I promise," John said, throwing his hands up in defeat. The remark seemed to pacify his friend. A small silence passed between the two. "Thank you for appeasing me, tonight." John whispered after he thought his friend had fallen asleep. He rolled onto his side, back to his friend.

"Thank you for the fun," Sherlock whispered back.

John felt Sherlock move, closing in the inches between them. The closeness shocked John at first, but it passed almost immediately as warmth flooded his body and sleepiness overtook him.


	2. Chapter 2

John's eyes snapped open. That dream had been too real. He raised his head and sucked in a breath as the last remnants of the dream still clinging to his consciousness like a cobweb.

He'd had plenty of nightmares before, but this one had been obscene. And Sherlock had been there. Christ, none of them had happened like that before. There had been blood and guns and bombs, old news, but the addition of Sherlock was new and definitely unwelcome.

John let out a slow steadying breath, heels of his hands pressing hard into his eyes. When he pulled his hands away he felt dampness. He mumbled under his breath as a lump formed in his throat. He glanced at the clock, 2:30. At least he didn't have to go into work tomorrow. John tried to slow his heart by taking a few more deep breaths and looked around his room. His heart clenched as he saw a tall shadow by his door. The shadow straightened up.

"John?" A soft baritone voice came.

"Shit," John breathed. "Sherlock, how long have you been there?"

Sherlock hesitated, staying in the shadows by the door. "About five minutes." Another pause. "You were making quite a racket, John."

John shook his head. "Christ, I'm sorry, Sherlock." He was glad his voice was even. The tightness in his throat didn't seem to be going away. "I didn't mean to wake you." He felt guilty.

"Please," Sherlock said quietly, a sneer plain in his voice. "I wasn't sleeping." Sherlock's shape seemed to sag a little and there was a momentary awkward silence before the man nearly whispered, "I haven't slept in nearly three days."

John sat up quickly, all thoughts relating to his dream slipping away as concern for his best friend clouded his mind. How did Sherlock continue to function on so little sleep? A brain like his had to require more rest than he'd been giving it. "Sherlock, you okay?" No response. "There has to be a reason you're not sleeping. You're not even on a case right now." Still nothing, though John could hear the other man's breath hitch.

"Stop worrying so much about me, John." Sherlock muttered finally. John could see Sherlock's shape straighten once more, pulling his dressing gown around him tightly. Sherlock came forward to the edge of John's bed, leaning towards him. "I came in here to make sure you were all right." Sherlock stated, moonlight hitting his eyes and turning them a striking pale grey. "Your nightmares worry me sometimes." Sherlock moved his face a little closer. "You have them more often than you realize." His eyes narrowed, gauging any and all reactions that flitted across John's face. John felt his breath catch in his throat and he was suddenly very aware that he only had on an undershirt and boxers. "What do you dream about, John?" Sherlock rumbled, almost to himself.

John swallowed and licked his lips. "Uh, well," Thoughts of the dream he'd just had slid into the foreground of his mind. He took in a sharp breath. "Mostly, uh," Sherlock leaned in a little closer, eyes narrowing further, lips twitching in thought. John's eyes froze there. Oh those lips, full and perfect, God they looked so smooth.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, a slight impatience breaking through his pensive mask.

John shook his head once to clear his head. "Mostly about the war, sorry." John looked at his hands. He'd hardly told his therapist about his nightmares. They seemed too clichéd. "Guns and fighting. There's usually a lot of blood and I …" John shuddered as a sudden realization hit him. He closed his eyes tight, hands gripping the sheets around him. "I can't help them, Sherlock." The tightness was returning to his throat, and John willed his voice not to crack, not in front of a being as unwavering as Sherlock. "The people are hurt and dying and I know how to help them, but my hands. I can't make them do what I need them to do to help all of these people." John took in a ragged breath.

"Go on," Sherlock said gently. John could feel him lowering himself onto the bed, could feel the heat radiating from his best friend. He felt a hand hovering over his thigh, hesitating, not sure if the gesture would be welcome but then finally deciding to hell with the consequences. Sherlock's hands were on him, in an awkward way, but John could feel the comfort they were supposed to be bringing; one on his thigh, the other squeezing into his shoulder.

"Jesus and the one about my wound." John could hear his voice growing higher with the lump in his throat turning painful. "It's all too much. The sheer volume of the gun fire, the shouts of men falling around me. And the pain. God, the pain is the worst, Sherlock." John's voice finally cracked on the final word. He drew up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, burying his head between his body and legs. He needed to feel solid again, get a grip on himself. He could feel Sherlock's hands fluttering around him, unsure of what to do, how to help. Finally, Sherlock pulled himself fully onto John's bed and folded himself around his friend. Such an intimate act shocked John and something broke in his chest and a sob escaped though his lips.

"Shh, John," Sherlock cooed, running a hand through John's hair. "It's all right, now. Nothing else is going to hurt you, I promise." Sherlock's arms tightened around John's shoulders as another sob ripped though him. "I won't let anything harm you." Sherlock growled and John believed him.

John took in a deep steadying breath and willed his body to come back under his control. After a minute, all that John had left were sniffles. He could feel himself being gently rocked as Sherlock pressed his face into the nape of his neck. Within a few heart beats John could hear Sherlock humming softly. John almost fell over at the prospect of Sherlock treating him like such a child. He was about to push the man away in disgust when a thought hit him. Perhaps this was the only way Sherlock knew how to fix nightmares. Surely this was how … whoever came to a young Sherlock's aid would have handled it. Maybe this sort of comfort was the last Sherlock had ever let himself receive and therefore all he knew when trying to comfort others. John felt his posture soften and let himself relax. He took Sherlock's hands in his own, interlocking their fingers, letting his best friend know that yes, this was helping. Sherlock rocked the two of them softly to the beat of the nursery rhyme. John could barely make out the words that Sherlock was whispering under his breath.

When the rhyme was over John raised his head. Sherlock looked at him, concern showing on his angular features for a fraction of a second. "There now," Sherlock said to him softly, moving his head closer to John's. "Feeling better, love?" Sherlock placed a kiss softly on John's forehead without seeming to realize his actions or the words he'd said. But the lack of realization lasted less than a second before a look of embarrassment over took his features. Yes, John decided, this had been the ritual Sherlock's caretaker had used to calm him in his youth. Any shock John would have felt was chased away with the knowledge that Sherlock was only using what he knew.

An embarrassed breath escaped through Sherlock's nose and he tried to pull away, the beginnings of an apology forming on his heart shaped lips. John kept his hands tight around Sherlock's. He was quite enjoying the comforting heat of another person, thank you very much. "Please," He heard himself whisper. "Stay?"

Sherlock's breath was shallow and he had a flustered look on his face that he wasn't hiding very well, but he nodded. John felt a smile creep across his face and his heart leapt when Sherlock returned it with a small smile of his own. John lay back into his bed, hands still entwined with Sherlock's, pulling the other man down with him, letting himself stay in Sherlock's embrace. He was reminded of the night they'd gone to a club a few weeks ago. This was better than drunken cuddling by a long shot.

John snuggled into the welcome heat of his companion. God it had been a while since his bed had been warmed by someone he didn't plan on throwing out in the morning. There was no need to try and impress this body, no need to force himself upon it in an attempt to try and live up to some crazy expectations, there was just companionship and it was the best feeling. Knowing he could be vulnerable and still rely on this heat tomorrow. Before he could help himself, John tilted his head up and kissed Sherlock's neck, whispering "Thank you."

He heard Sherlock's breath catch, again. He felt a slight shiver course through the other man. Sherlock tilted his own head down to press their foreheads together, their breath mingling, sending John's head spinning. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he closed the inched between their lips, though he didn't kiss John.

"I can't promise to be here for every nightmare." Sherlock breathed, his soft lips, yes they were soft and smooth just as John had imagined, touching John's with every syllable. It was John's turn to shiver.

"Any effort is enough." John told him. His lips ached to kiss his companion. It was such an overwhelming need and it had come out of nowhere. He was overwhelmed, but, probably foolishly, he let his body control his mind. He brushed his lips against Sherlock's. "Please?" he whispered breathlessly. Before he could finish uttering the single syllable Sherlock pressed their lips together, chastely, sweetly, and God was it good.

John was surprised at how easily Sherlock's mouth moved with his own. He had no idea how experienced Sherlock was and at this point he didn't care. John pressed into Sherlock, intensifying the kiss and Sherlock reciprocated, a low noise coming from the back of his throat. John finally took his hands away from the other man's and framed Sherlock's face with them. He pulled away to look at his companion, nerves taking over his irrational actions. Sherlock's lips were parted slightly, his eyes, God what color were they even now, dark and a touch too sensual for John to handle at the moment. The gravity of his actions hit him like a bus. Fear overtook him. He wasn't supposed to have liked that kiss, wasn't supposed to have his belly doing summersaults, he liked women for God's sake. But as the other man's hands tangled into his short hair and moved his face closer for another taste, he realized that this was no ordinary man, this was _Sherlock Holmes_ and nothing normal applied to anything about either of them.

"John, don't be afraid." Sherlock assured him quietly. "I promised to let nothing hurt you." Sherlock kissed the corners of John's mouth sweetly. "We don't have to do anything. Not unless you want to." Sherlock pulled back and looked him in the eye, pale eyes boring into his soul. "Whatever you want. Or don't want."

Those words rocked John. So Sherlock wanted this? Where had his selfish manipulation gone? John let out a chuckle. The mere admission that he was letting John control the situation was almost enough for John to say do what you will; I'm putty in your hands. But he knew he couldn't go that far yet. He wasn't sure what would happen, but he knew he needed to taste Sherlock again. John pulled his best friend towards him with a hunger even he didn't expect. Sherlock growled as his lips moved with John's, hands raking down John's back. John's tongue ran across Sherlock's lips before the other man parted them to let John explore his mouth. John's head was swimming. Everything about Sherlock just felt so right. He couldn't believe that Sherlock was letting him do this at all. This extraordinary man was opening up to him in ways he wasn't sure anyone had seen before. It sent John into a high that made his fingers tangle into Sherlock's dark curls roughly.

John let out a light groan as Sherlock rolled him onto his back. He was planting kisses all over John's jaw and down his neck. His nimble fingers were playing at the hem of John's undershirt, not wanting to over step their boundaries. Sherlock ran his nose down John's torso, breathing him in, stopping at the patch of skin where undershirt ended and boxers started. Sherlock looked up at John for permission.

John's head was shaking side to side before his brain could get the word 'no' to his lips, but once uttered, Sherlock raised his hands in surrender and brought himself back up to eye level.

"Sorry," John stumbled. "I just – it's so fast. I can't – I don't…"

Sherlock silenced John's poor attempt at a sentence with his lips. "No need to fret. We're doing this slowly." Sherlock met his eyes carefully. "If you're really wanting for things to move forward."

John closed his eyes and pushed his hands into his forehead. "I don't know what I want right now, Sherlock." He could feel Sherlock starting to move away, his eyes snapped open and panic filled his gut. His hands snapped out and grabbed Sherlock's T-shirt, pulling him close again. "I do know that I don't want to be alone right now." He breathed.

"I can do that." Sherlock answered. He lay back down and snaked his arms around John. John pressed his face into Sherlock, his heart rate slowing. Yes, this was good, John thought as his eyes became heavy again. Warmth poured into him, radiating from Sherlock like a beacon of hope, burning away all thoughts of those returning nightmares. John fell asleep content.

Sherlock wasn't there in the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

John was lying awake in his bedroom. It was nearing 1:30 AM. Sherlock would be in his room at 1:30. He didn't really know how this routine got started, but it seemed to be the fault of that one night, after a particularly nasty nightmare, when John had wakened to Sherlock in his doorway. Sherlock had comforted him, they had kissed, and then cuddled the rest of the night. Now Sherlock came in when he couldn't sleep or when John had nightmares, but he also came at 1:30 on Tuesdays and Wednesdays – when they weren't on a case.

Sherlock was never there when John woke the next morning.

John glanced at the clock again. 1:29. He clenched his hands in anticipation. He looked forward to these nights more and more as he and Sherlock had gotten more and more intimate. Things had been taken slow like Sherlock promised, but there was a point in time where John had said bugger all and things had really gotten interesting. He didn't know what happened to his heterosexuality when Sherlock climbed into his bed. He did know that Sherlock loved what they did, but seemingly had no intention of bringing their relationship - was it a relationship? - to the light of day. Nothing was the same at night, everything was magic and well, John got what he needed, so why complain?

"John."

John's chest filled with warmth and his breath caught in his throat. Sherlock walked over to his bed, silent as could be. He grabbed the top of the duvet and, in a swirl of fabric, threw it to the ground. His eyes, his fucking beautiful, alien eyes, flashed in the darkness. John gasped. Sherlock was hungry tonight.

John was fully clothed, always was at the start of their escapades. Sherlock loved tearing John's clothes off. The man growled as he descended into the bed and John felt a thrill up his spine. He couldn't tell if it was arousal or fear.

Sherlock's hands were on him. Long, spindly fingers shoving under his shirt, running over his chest, his stomach. Sherlock's lips dominated his mouth. John moaned as Sherlock lightly twisted one of his nipples. Then Sherlock was shoving John's shirt up. John jumped when he actually heard thread ripping. His hands groped for the hem of his shirt and, upon finding it, he arched his back to get it off of himself.

Sherlock pressed his hands on John's face. He ran his nose up the middle of John's torso, panting. He licked along John's jaw line. John could feel a feverish heat radiating off of the other man. He vaguely wondered why Sherlock was so flustered tonight, but the thoughts quickly faded when Sherlock started nibbling around the waist band of his boxers.

John's hands tangled into Sherlock's dark curls, deciding he wanted a little control of tonight's events. He pushed Sherlock's head closer to his groin. Sherlock growled again and pulled John's boxers off violently. Sherlock suddenly yanked himself out of John's grip and in just a few seconds was naked as well. John was always surprised at how fast the man could shed his clothing. Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders and pulled him up, kissing him hurriedly before settling himself on the bed. John was now sitting in between Sherlock's legs.

"Your turn." Sherlock purred, pulling a bottle of lube seemingly out of nowhere.

John's heart clenched. Sherlock had never let him do this before. He took the lube out of Sherlock's hand. "Have you done this before?"

"Yes, but not recently." Sherlock stated. "You'll do fine. Don't even worry about preparation."

John nodded slowly. He'd just take from his experiences when Sherlock had done this to him. John hesitated, suddenly nervous. He opened the bottle and squeezed a glob into his hand before slicking it over his erection. He glanced up at Sherlock. A dark smirk was plastered on his face. It gave John a little bit of confidence. He threw Sherlock's legs over his shoulders and lined himself up. He felt Sherlock's body nearly go limp. Of course this man would have that much control over his entire body, Christ.

John licked his lips and steeled himself before pressing into Sherlock. He did so achingly slow, not wanting to hurt the other man, not wanting anything to go wrong. With some pleasured writhing from Sherlock, John found himself all the way inside of the detective. His heart was pounding, his mouth was dry. He nearly couldn't believe what he was doing.

"Move." Sherlock growled.

John shook his head slightly and gladly obliged. He started gentle at first but the friction quickly became too overwhelming. He pumped his hips faster, attempting to angle upwards to try and hit Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock was moaning in time to his thrusts beneath him, hands gripped tightly in the sheets. The sight of Sherlock coming undone made John's vision go fuzzy and his hips lost their measured rhythm, thrusting wildly now.

"More, John. Please." Sherlock pleaded. "_Harder_."

John grunted with effort and the glorious feeling of Sherlock around him. God he was close, so close. Just a bit mo – Sherlock nearly screamed. John looked down to see the man stroking himself through his orgasm. The sight of it put John over the edge, whiteness filling his vision, pleasure ripping through him. Sherlock pulled him as close as possible, hand squeezing his buttocks almost painfully.

John collapsed forward, panting as though he'd just run a marathon. Sherlock shifted and they became two entities once more.

"Good, John." Sherlock breathed in his ear. "Very good. We will definitely be doing this again."

John could only mumble incoherently. God that had been the best he'd had in a very long time. He heard Sherlock chuckle lightly. It really was infuriating how fast Sherlock could come down from orgasm. John felt himself get pulled closer to the oven that was post-coital Sherlock Holmes. He nuzzled into his companion's chest and breathed in his heady scent. Sherlock's arms and legs wrapped around him.

John fought off sleep as long as possible. He didn't want Sherlock to leave, didn't want this feeling to dissipate. He finally nodded off with a whispered plea on his lips. "_Please stay with me_."

He was not disappointed when he awoke the next morning.


End file.
